


NonRegulation Maneuvers

by subtropicalStenella



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Accidental Voyeurism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Armor Kink, Cunnilingus, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Frottage, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Intercrural Sex, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miltary Jargon-Based Sex Puns, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 20:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: It wasn't that she didn't know some of her men thought of her this way. She was a reasonably attractive member of a highly sexualized species, with the bonus allure of being female, Jedi, and a demonstrative example of someone who gave even half a damn about their affection-starved well being.This was different. This was bad. This wasBly





	1. NonRegulation Maneuvers

It wasn't that she didn't  _ know  _ some of her men thought of her this way. She was a reasonably attractive member of a highly sexualized species, with the bonus allure of being female, Jedi, and a demonstrative example of someone who gave even half a damn about their affection-starved well being. 

Normally she just… went elsewhere when thoughts trended that direction, slow and easy late in the night cycle or a quick frantic burst energy in a few scraped together minutes alone in a closet or fresher. Or she meditated. Either was enough to dim the influx of emotion and sensation into something less distracting. It was good practice for her, good for their morale, perfectly natural and if she was completely honest with herself, a little flattering. 

This different. This was bad. This was  _ Bly. _ Competent, confident, loyal Bly, with his secret smiles, whose head she was in almost constantly, tied together in the Force by camaraderie and shared experience and genuine friendship and having saved each other's lives so often they stopped keeping count. Bly who never,  _ ever  _ thought of her when he did this.  Pointedly. Once or twice he almost had, but had squashed the inclination under guilt-embarrassment- _ not-allowed  _ and then determinedly steered his thoughts in another direction, usually one of his fellow commanders. Wolffe was a favorite, but then  _ everyone  _ wanted Wolffe.

She could block out what the others thought and felt and dreamed and wanted. Not him. His mind was so familar to her that she could barely tell where his ended and  hers began. And especially not like this, not when he kept thinking about _her_ , involuntarily thinking  _ at  _ her, an itch she couldn't scratch at the back of her mind. Whispers flavored with a little bit of guilt and a  _ lot  _ of defiance that smothered the guilt in  _ damn it I’m alone in my own fucking head  _ and, oh Light, and her own voice saying  _ You deserve nice things too, you know. _

Which meant she was left standing with her shaking hands braced on the holotable, clouded vision blurring the map into an exhausted muddle of light.

“ _ You should get some rest _ ,” he says gently. “ _ Glaring at that pass isn't going to make it any more traversable _ .”

She startles, expecting to see him behind her, leaning easily in the doorway the way he never did when anyone but she could see him. He's not there. Because that was from a few weeks ago. This is what he was thinking-- _ fantasizing  _ about? Watching her strategize? She knows what comes next.

Go to bed, he'll say.

_ Come to bed _ , he says. Easy and casual like he's said it a thousand times.

Wait. No, that's... that's not what happened. The focus changes, to the back of her neck, where she carries all her stress-tension, the clasp of her lekku harness that starts to dig uncomfortably at the end of a long day. How does he…? Of course, he's seen her rub at the back of her neck, stick her fingers under the harness to release the tension on the sore spots countless times.

_ “Ten more minutes, _ ” she says. Said. Because this isn't really happening.

_ “That's what you said half an hour ago.” _

He's right behind her now, his hand coming up to the tightness at the roots of her lekku, a flickering hesitation between the fact that he has never done this, wouldn't  _ dare _ , and the fantasy that he's this familiar with her. His bare--gloved--no,  _ bare  _ thumb slides easily under the buckle of her harness, rubbing slowly at the knot of tension, and she groans appreciatively, rolling her head as the pain eases.  _ Really  _ eases, that shouldn't be possible. Psychosomatic, probably.

"Please?" he'd asked, from the doorway, not touching her, not

_ Please?  _ in a husky, low voice right next to her cone, his lips just barely brushing the fragile skin behind it.

“ _ That's cheating, _ ” she says. Had said, because he'd given her the akk pup eyes and smiled, not because he had pressed his mouth to the equally tense muscle where her shoulder and neck joined.

_ “But it works.”  _

Timeskip, fast forward, something,  _ somehow  _ they're in her room.  _ Their  _ room. That's her bed but his armor is stacked neatly on a stand in the corner next to her saber, the top of his blacks slung haphazardly over the lot like he peeled out of them on habit, comfortable here.

She's not really there, with his callused fingertips trailing up and down the line of her spine. She's still in the strategy room, poring over the maps, _alone_. But. Maybe she should be somewhere more secure. Especially if she can't block him out, can't stop this. Well. She  _ could _ . She could shut him down, tell him just how strongly he's projecting. But… it's harmless, isn't it? She lets his men indulge like this, and he… Light, he wants this, wants  _ her,  _ so badly. And she...

She's back in her room anyway, before she had even really thought about it, backed up against the closed door like a trapped animal. He's kissing the back of her shoulders again, his lips light and soft and slightly chapped as he follows the collar of her top. His fingers are deft and light as he unbuckles her harness himself, smoothing his hands all down the length of her lekku as he slides the straps off, focusing on the creases left behind, rubbing the faint marks away with careful, almost reverent hands. She can't help a faint, contented sound at the non-existent touch slowly working the kinks out of her lekku, soothing a headache she didn't know she had. His hands work back up to the base of her skull, then down her neck, down her back, pulling open the ties of her shirt to run his thumbs down her spine, kissing a small crooked shrapnel scar on her shoulderblade.

" _Bly..._ " she sighs. It had been exasperated, long-suffering but fond then, in the map room, and it still was, and he still smiles. But now it's against her skin, more a kiss than anything else, as he slides his hands inside her shirt, cupping her breasts briefly in his palms, fingertips brushing over her nipples before carefully pushing her shirt forward and down off her shoulder.

_"Mhn?"_

" _You're impossible,"_ she grumbles, smiling faintly, just like she had when she had grudgingly given in to him. Then, just that she should sleep. Now? Light, part of the value of clones was their eidetic memories, the ability to take information and run with it, to improvise, but she knew  _ damn  _ well the bloody Kaminoans had never factored in  _ this  _ kind of use for those skills. She bites down on her bottom lip, choking back a surprised gasp at the sharp jolt of heat down her spine when wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close, her naked back to his bare chest. He finally,  _ finally  _ touches himself, running his hands down his bare chest and stomach, palms flat over the thick, slowly swelling bulge in his blacks. 

He'd waited, wanting to  _ savor _ the thin shallow imitation of how it would feel if the--the-- _the_ _sweet_ _  soft warmmuscledfuckinghot _ curves of her were pressed up against him, and she shudders on a reflexive, stifled moan, sliding down to the floor as he carefully pulls her lekku up and over  _ his  _ shoulders to trail down his broad back. The whole sensitive underside of her lekku rubbing against his skin, taking in the pheromones pouring off him.  _Shit._ How  had he known to do  _ that _ ? Was it his own instinctive idea, something he just  _ wanted _ or had he seen it somewhere, with someone, in the contraband holos everyone knew they somehow got their hands on, or at the instruction of some waitress at 79’s? She squeezes her legs together, breathing hard, as his cock twitches, pushing against the thick nanoprene of his blacks as he rocks up against her, against his hands.

Oh thank all the stars and little planets. The sooner he  _ really _ gets into this, gets this  _ over  _ with, the sooner she can--undoubtedly very poorly--pretend it didn't happen and go back to what she was  _ supposed  _ to be doing.

She pulls away from him slightly,  _ like she should _ , shivering as her lekku drag over his sleekly muscled shoulders. He reels her back in with his hands on her hips, turning her to face him.

_ Where do you think you're going?  _ he purrs, soft and warm as he tips her chin up with one hand, lips barely brushing hers.  _ You promised me you'd take some downtime. _

She had, hadn't she? That was part of the conversation he'd skipped over. She is too wrapped up in this, in his mind. She's so lucky her thoughts of  _ leaving  _ didn't interrupt him, didn't let on that she was watching this play out, all but  _ participating _ . But then, her attempt to sacrifice personal needs for the greater good  _ would  _ be in character, and he knows her so well.

_ C’mere,  _ he growls, but not like he's upset. He's grinning against her lips as he kisses her, short and soft touches,  _ playful _ as his hands drop from her hips to her ass, squeezing once before dropping farther, lifting her up to hook her legs around his waist. Her fingernails dig into the soft woven-rag rug under her as her arms slide easily around his neck and she kisses him back, deeper, warm and hungry. He huffs out a short, harsh breath as he presses down on his hips and groin with hands and forearms, mimicking the imaginary grip of her thighs before he tosses her lightly onto  _ their  _ bed.

He crawls up after her on hands and knees, slow and predatory. He has more tattoos than she's used to, the yellow streaks on his face and across the back of his shoulders obviously, but more yellow wrapped around his forearms, across his chest, and--and--oh--oh  _ fuck,  _ bands of blue,  _ her blue,  _ around his upper arms, with the softened edges of old, old ink. He hasn't had the time to get more work done, he's mentioned it offhand before, but this?  _ This  _ is what he wants? Her colors indelibly written into his skin?

Her hips lift off the bed, off her _floor,_  for him automatically as he unfastens her pants, tugging them off without looking as he kisses his way down her body. He lingers over the thin scar along her ribs, the freckle on the side of her breast above it that he only knows about because he had taped the bacta patch over the blaster-burn himself, railing at her to wear some damn armor next time.

She gets a bit of a reprieve when he leaves off some of his focus on his fantasy, on _her_ , to skin his blacks halfway down his thighs and roll over onto his stomach, rutting briefly, eagerly against the mattress, his cock pressed between his cheap, Republic Issue sheets and the warm flat plane of his abdomen. Her head  _ thunks _ back against the door as she sighs with relief. Almost done, now.

And then his arms come up around his head, his face pressed against his thin pillow with scarcely enough room to breathe, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other pushing down between his shoulderblades.

What on…?

His arms tighten down around the sides of his head and oh  _ fuck  _ it's her legs, it's her  _ legs _ , it's as close as he can get to having her legs wrapped around his head, her heels digging into his shoulders and her fingernails scraping roughly over his scalp while he fucks her open with his mouth and  _ tongue  _ and the faintest gentle scrape of teeth. Oh oh  _ oh fuck _ , fuck,  _ fuck  _ he had to have done research, something,  _ somehow _ \--he shouldn't have any idea what he's  _ doing _ down there, let alone  _ that,  _ that,  _ oh  _ that neat figure-eight that hits  _ both  _ the sensitive little nerve clusters above and below the dripping slit of her entrance, startling a high whimper out of her. He chuckles into the flesh of her inner thigh, looking up to grin cheekily at her before enthusiastically resuming his work, watching her all the while with those big, beautiful brown-gold eyes as he slowly, thoroughly licks and kisses her brainless, sucking softly at her smooth, wet folds, rolling his tongue in idle, maddening patterns, occasionally rocking his hips down into the mattress, sliding on sheets rapidly growing slick with precum.

She can't take much more of this, her hips twitching involuntarily against nothing and his sweet clever mouth together, the sopping-wet seams of her pants and the soft warm pressure of his tongue lighting up her spine like a magnesium flare, forcing faint little desperate whines out of her. Fuck it. If he won't get a move on,  _ she  _ will. She _ \-- _ she helps his thoughts along, guiding them a little. She tugs at his short hair, her heels hooking under his arms to pull him up her body, to line their hips up so he can just  _ fuck  _ her, fucking  _ finish _ this and--

\--and he  _ fights it _ , his arms crossing over her stomach to hold her down. He  _ bites  _ her, nipping sharply at the soft skin at the crease of her thigh.

_ None of that,  _ he growls warningly, an admonishment he softens by gently kissing the mark he left with his teeth.  _ Not yet. _

Another kiss, to the other thigh, and he smiles slyly.  _ Downtime, remember? _

She groans aloud, half in exasperation, half at the  _ horrible  _ pun, and he chuckles again before he turns the sound into a hungry, approving moan with that little figure-eight trick again. She really  _ was  _ too deep in this, in his mind enough that she can feel  _ everything  _ he can possibly think of doing, and enough that he can apparently get some vague sense of  _ her _ , fantasy more vivid than he's ever experienced, and he was going to have her  _ his  _ way.  _ Shit.  _ He wasn't going to let her go, not… not unless she...

She chews her lip and shudders as his arms relax on her stomach, trusting her to stay put as he strokes those sensitive nerve clusters over and  _ over  _ again, pausing occasionally in his rhythm to lick deeply into her, lapping up the wetness all but pouring out of her. Her hands shake as she slowly unfastened her pants, fingertips dipping down inside over soaking wet flesh--Light, these pants were  _ ruined-- _ and his fingers follow, two slipping easily inside her as her legs fall open on a broken moan and clamp down around his head with his arms. Her fingernails dig into his scalp and the rug as he adds a third finger, stretching her so sweetly, stroking in time with his tongue on one clitoris and his thumb on the other where the  _ fuck  _ did he learn that,  _ she  _ can't even hit both at once, not like that, not in sequence, not even if she tries, and it's driving her utterly insane.

Her cunt tightens down on his fingers, her fingers, as her hips rock almost violently against his face and nothing and her hand all at once, and he ruts against his mattress like he wants to fuck her  _ through  _ it, getting off on the just thought of pleasing her.

She comes screaming his name, unsure if she actually did or if he imagined it or  _ both  _ or if it even matters.

He's moaning quietly, raggedly now with each rolling thrust against sheets damp and slippery with sweat and the precum drooling steadily from his swollen cock, until he  _ forces _ himself to stop moving, breathing unevenly as he rolls onto his back, fumbling for something off the side of the bunk. She gets another break, leaning back against the door, panting for breath and trying to still her shaking legs as he shifts impatiently sideways, coming up with a bottle of lubricant. The real thing, not pilfered from the medical stocks designed for surgical tubing, not the ever-popular bacta, and he squeezes the entire thing out into his hand,  _ wasting it _ \--

No, not wasting it. He knows--because  _ everyone  _ knows--that Twi'lek women are a wet, messy fuck,  _ especially  _ if they're enjoying themselves, and he  _ wants _ that. He wants her on her knees, on top of him, loose-boned and languid from pleasure. He wants her sliding slowly down onto his cock with a soft, wanton moan, spine curved back and abdomen flexing smoothly. Both his slick hands stroke down his length in a facsimile of  _ her _ , dripping wet and loving the feeling of him buried to the hilt inside her. He wants the tangible evidence of her pleasure smeared across his hips and dripping down between his legs, slipping down the insides of her thighs. He doesn't move his hands, nothing fancy, instead bracing his heels on the mattress and snapping his hips up into hers, his head thrown back and her hands braced on her chest as she rides him, rolling her hips with hard flexes of her strong thighs squeezing his sides, grinding down, not letting him draw back out of her even once. Heat gathers low in his abdomen, so close to orgasm it  _ hurts,  _ his hands tight on her hips to guide her motion, gasping out

_ Come on, come  _ on  _ love, give me another one _ \--

She  _ wails  _ brokenly as his hand goes to her center again, fingertips working in rough, uneven circles over the nerves there, and she squeezes the wet fingers she still has thrusting into her cunt, her wrist aching, wishing crazily, desperately that it was his fingers, his cock,  _ him _ inside her. For a moment it  _ is _ and it's enough to tip her over the edge again, crying out and falling forward over him onto her elbows. His eyes snap open wide at that, and his back arches in a perfect curve off the thin mattress as he comes and comes and  _ comes,  _ hot and wild into her and spilling over his knuckles and splattering up his stomach in thick stripes.

He falls back to the mattress and just lays there, breathing heavily, for several long moments, staring at the underside of the bunk above his while she tries to scrape herself together off the floor of her room. She sags heavily forward, trying to breathe and _shaking_ with the aftershocks still rippling through her, until he turns his head to look  _ right  _ at her through the wall.

“A-Aayla?” he calls hoarsely, hesitantly, and she freezes in complete shock.

How could she have forgotten that her room shared a wall with the barracks? He hadn't had his arms over his head and ears that second time and--and--he  _ heard  _ her.

“Aayla,” he calls again, a little more confidently this time, like he enjoys her given name on his tongue. “I think we need to talk.” 


	2. Percussive Maintenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and introspection ahoy, some mild injury gore.

It's almost impossible to  _ not  _ think of something. The harder you try, the more you end up thinking about it. So he doesn't think about it. And he doesn't think about  _ not  _ thinking about it. Just.

Reach up.

Pull one corner of the sheets up.

Clean the worst of the mess off your hands. 

And stomach.

And groin.

And inner thighs.

And  _ chest _ , fuck--

Don't think about it.

Sit up.

Don't grey out from the head rush.

 

...

 

Sit up a little slower.

Stand up.

_ Slower _ . 

Fuck's sake don't fall over, you aren't  _ that  _ wobbly.

Pull the sheets with you when you go.

Strip the bed.

Throw the bedding down the laundry chute with everyone else's.

 

...

 

Wait.  _ Shit _ . You still have to walk to the refresher.

 

...

 

No, it's fine, the 327th barracks are completely empty because everyone else is out having a night on the town like Normal People. That was half the appeal, you'd be  _ alone. _

Yeah that worked out real good, didn't it.

Don't think about it, just get in the fucking refresher.

 

…

 

Probably should use cold water.

The chill gets his head back on straight, pummeling the back of his neck and shoulders as he leans on his hands against the wall. Thank fuck this base had decent water pressure, enough to sting a little when he turns his face up into the spray. Honestly that was the worst thing about ship showers, not even the rationing. Three minutes of gentle dribbles pissing down back of your neck didn't do  _ dick  _ to get the stink of clanker grease and coolant and blasterburn and sweat and your own blood out of your skin, not after it had been soaking through your nanoprene for upwards of three days.

Quit stalling. Just get your damn soap ration and clean up the results of easily one of the top five orgasms of your ugly, brutal life. Definitely the best solo, fucking  _ hells _ , except you're not really sure if it qualifies as  _ solo  _ at all, given that the subject of this afternoon’s entertainment was  _ eavesdropping on your fuckdamn mind. _

_ Shit. _

Try smacking your head into the wall, see if that helps.

 

… 

 

Maybe once more for good measure.

Yeah that's not helping.

Colder water.

Scrubbing his hands over his face does nothing but remind him he needs a shave, his End-Of-Day-Shift Shadow edging into Swing Shift Stubble. She  _ likes  _ his stubble though, a traitorous little thought reminds him. Or at least the inexplicable contrast between the hair on his head versus his face.

They'd been roughing it on Tattooine for _cycles_ and his razor had crapped out days ago, full of the fucking powder-fine _sand_ that got _everywhere._ He'd ripped off his helmet in disgust, scrubbing the rough palms of his gloves over his cheeks, itching horribly with sweat and more _fucking_ sand that stuck _to_ the sweat on top of the _overall_ itchiness of eighth-day beard against the nanoprene helmet lining. She had laughed at his near-frantic state, not comprehending why it bothered him so much, it was no longer than the rest of his hair, after all. The discussion had nearly escalated into an argument, fueled by too much sun and not enough water and being stuck on the far side of a fucking sand dune for far too fucking long until finally he grabbed her hands, slapped one onto his head and the other to his cheek and _proved_ they were different, one coarser than the other. The light of Epiphany in a Jedi’s eyes is something to behold. Better still when it turns out her longer fingernails are much more effective at apologetically scritching sand out of one's stubble, which could have gotten weird, had Colo Squad not _finally_ spotted the target, calling the ambush into readiness.

He might have played a little fast and loose with uniform regulations after that, because he's a lovestruck  _ sap. _

Percussive maintenance only works on droids, idiot. Knock that shit off.

Now you're contradicting yourself. Good job, Marshal Commander, you're Doing Great Things For The Republic.

 

...

 

Get out of the refresher, jackass, even if you  _ were _ using hot water, it wouldn't run cold for hours, not with these water tanks. Can't use that as a benchmark, you're clean enough and you're starting to get the shivers anyway.

Towels are as crap as he remembers, thin and rough and reeking of industrial bleach, same as his sheets, but it's a scent few of them minded anymore. It meant you were safe, or at least as safe as they ever got. It meant downtime and actual seated meals and full sleep cycles out of armor.

This was a good string of thoughts. This was  _ normal.  _ Very nearly his original plan for the end of his leave day.

  1. Extremely self-indulgent jerk-off (Check. Fucking hell, _check._ )
  2. Refresher (Check. Original plan had been to see if he could actually strain the base heaters on his own but _that_ fell through, didn't it.)
  3. Fall into his rack before the sleep cycle started and steal a few extra hours of real rest while he could.



He could still do that last part and just... Pretend none of this happened. Pretend he didn't know exactly what she sounded like when she fell apart in his hands. Pretend he didn't know that the tips of her lekku curled up into small, neat circles when she orgasmed. Pretend there was no way he could know that, because the girls hadn't told him that was a thing, and it was too small a detail and too clear an image for him to have thought up on his own, therefore it had to come from  _ her. _

Yeah,  _ that’ll  _ work. Just go about his business like she hadn't been in the back of his mind, like she always is, while he furiously masturbated to the thought of screwing her senseless and soft and  _ relaxed  _ enough to let herself  _ sleep _ and--

Hang on.

He stops dead halfway through the barracks, stark naked, towel over his head, partway through scruffing the last of the water out of his short hair.

She was _always_ in his head. That. Force Bond thing. It was part of why they worked so well together, two halves of a whole. He hadn't really thought about it before but she was _always_ there. They were rarely far enough apart for distance to make much of a difference, mostly because she didn't insist on haring off on wild ideas and half-baked schemes and covert undercover operations and jumping out of fuckdamn _shuttles,_ all without backup, unlike _some_ Generals he’s had to rescue. She was _always_ in his head. So. What if...

… Had this happened before, without him knowing? He made a point of not thinking about  _ his General  _ when… y’know...  _ Doing Gun Maintenance,  _ before, but. Had she seen other things? He was a perfectly healthy human male in the peak of physical fitness, that sort of thing  _ happened  _ a couple times a week, not to mention occasional involvement of others and...

… oh  _ fuck _ there was Fox  _ and _ Wolffe at 79’s that one time, when… fucking hell he'd let Wolffe jack him off in the fucking  _ booth _ let alone everything else that had happened after they made it to the back rooms.  _ Fuck.  _ Great. Well, hopefully she enjoyed the show.

No no  _ no.  _ No. You are not going to think about that. That is  _ not  _ incredibly hot.

 

…

 

Fine. Yes it is. You're not going to think about it anyway. Contemplating your superior officer’s sexual proclivities is what got you into this mess in the first place.

 

…

 

Hey. Fucknut. You're still standing next to Enth squad’s bunks with your dick out.  _ Put some fucking blacks on. _

Better. Even if it is a pain in the ass to pull nanoprene up your legs when you're still kinda damp, but that's good, you can focus on that. Run your hands up the white stitching on the seams that marks your set as different from those of your men: slightly taller, broader. 

 

…

 

Don't think about that either. The things that make you different from your brothers, the chain of command built into your bones whether you liked it or not. Just put your fucking top on and seal up. His armor is clean, the dirt and oil and grease scrubbed away, the stink of smoke and sweat washed out. The scuffs in the paint, scratches and dents in the surface remain. Parade presentation without stripping away what he is. What he's been through. What  _ they've  _ been through. Together.

 

…

 

Boots first. He can do just about anything he needs to in his blacks, but fighting in bootliners or worse, barefoot, is not something he ever wants to repeat. Not that he's expecting a fight but… he needs it. The security of his armor, the protection it provides and represents, when he goes to her. He's already stripped naked mentally, feeling physically vulnerable won't make it any easier. Not if he’s actually going to tell her how he feels.

Greaves, poleyns. He still needs to sand down the polymer filling in the crack along his left calf, it keeps catching on the nanoprene underneath near his ankle. Few more kilos of pressure would have crushed his tibia, Aayla holding most of the weight of the overturned transport off them as he knelt over her under the wreckage probably saved his leg and Razor’s life.

Cuisses, with the big chips knocked out of the right one from shrapnel when an SBD blew up the wrong way, at the wrong time. One of the shards he'd pulled out of her shoulder had been painted with his gold, not droid-grey. The third fastener is bent again. Doesn't get jammed enough to be a hindrance, just annoying.

Codpiece and skidplate  _ buckled _ on, not pulled on in one piece like some civvies apparently thought. How the hell was someone supposed to get it off in a hurry for triage to a low gutshot, let alone take a fucking  _ piss _ ? Same with chest- and backplates. The worst  _ looking  _ damage is there: a distorted patch along his ribs, under his left arm. Shot from a droideka, high caliber. The plates caught almost all the damage, but he'd had a long, nasty burn underneath from the excess heat. Wouldn't have been so bad if he had treated it immediately, rather than nearly two days late, after the blisters had popped and it started to stick to the inside of his blacks. The General had had  _ words  _ with him about brushing off injuries just because he wasn't actively bleeding out.

… While he’d been stuck soaking off the horrific combination of crusted plasma, sweat, half-healed scabrous tissue and nanoprene in a tub full of warm, diluted bacta. It was significantly more awkward and… almost intimate, to have Aayla sitting next to him for the post-engagement debrief/lecture. No idea  _ why _ . He was  _ just as naked  _ as when she stood outside the freshers lecturing him. Possibly because he'd been slightly high on bacta fumes and endorphins.

Probably because it had been  _ her  _ tub, in her suite and all the comforts and  personal touches she'd added. It had seemed like the best idea, given shortage of available tanks and the fact that it still technically wasn't a  _ bad  _ injury, especially in comparison to some of the others. It had been... Nice.

At any rate, it had been  _ intensely  _ satisfying to turn the lecture back on her when she neglected to tell anyone that getting yanked around by one of her lekku--even  _ “just for a second!”-- _ by a commando droid that had gotten _ way _ too close, can cause severe tendon strain. Or that the resultant internal swelling  _ might possibly  _ put an unpleasant amount of pressure on her damn _ brain. _

No bathtub full of bacta, but he  _ did  _ get to lecture her twice. He'd had to be very smug in handsign until her hearing came back and she'd been able to take the coldpacks off. Until then, her remaining mobile lekku had been very  _ rude _ right back at him. Or just unusually talkative, without her harness. He still didn't know what  _ all  _ the gestures meant. 

 

… and now he’d learned a new one.  _ Shit.  _

 

He drops his face into his hands, one gauntleted, one not. He's not going to shave. He's going to finish gearing up and he's going to talk to Aayla because he's not going to be able to stop thinking about this, about her. About how that wasn't just a fantasy. About how he could feel the shift and flex of durasteel-cable muscle under skin softer than silk, with the slightly unreal, poreless texture he couldn't hope to replicate from memory, given the way it always seemed to surprise him whenever they made skin contact for whatever benign reason. About how that last broken wail of hers in his head as she bowed backwards, the tips of her lekku just brushing his shins before they curled up and her whole body held him tight, had synced up  _ perfectly  _ with the faint sounds next door.

The other gauntlet, sealed to his vambrace like the first, flexing his arms a few times to make sure the elbow guard slotted into the rerebrace around his upper arms like it should. The right one is in slightly better shape than the left, given that it's about three months newer. The original had snapped right along with his elbow, which was another thing he wasn't going to think about

His pauldron and kama come last, given that they're more accessories than anything. Symbols of rank. He leaves his gunbelt off because he doesn't need weapons, and his helmet, which needs to have several recalibrations anyway and he shouldn't hide his face.

He’s clean and kitted out. Can't stall anymore.

The General is right next door. He's standing outside her suite in a matter of moments, and brisk rap on the doorframe with his knuckles is practically muscle memory. He's been here to talk about dozens of things, hundreds of times. Just. Not this. Never this.

“General? A word?” he calls, like this is completely normal, and hears her sigh on the other side. His head impacts the door just before she opens it. This isn't normal. He just. Stands there, letting the metal door drag across his forehead as it slides open.

“Hello Bly,” she says softly.

 


	3. Strategic Miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is full of angst and confusion and then tits happen and it's great.

For all that he armored up, she dressed down, standing in the doorway in a soft cotton shirt that hangs off one shoulder, three sizes too big. Mostly  because it's sized for a clone. One of the undershirts they’re issued with their dress greys. She'd explained why, the first time he discovered her choice of sleeping attire.

Well. After. They’d been in the middle of an ambush when she had rolled out of her tent and into the firefight in a blur of long blue limbs and thin white fabric and whirling lightsaber.

Apparently they were soft, comfortable, and free, given that there were literal millions issued.

That was all well and good, but it didn't mean he didn't go a little cross-eyed seeing her standing there with the black-stitched bottom hem of a Command-issue undershirt skimming the tops of her strong, bare thighs. Covered in mud and soot and sweat was one thing, definitely on his list of  _ things to not think about, _ but this… soft and open and undeniably vulnerable? It hits the same way and differently all at once, a heavy blow Iow in his abdomen that threatens to take him down to his knees with the need to pull her into his arms.

“Hello Bly,” she says softly, and steps back to let him into the room. He swallows roughly and steps inside, letting the door slide shut behind him. “You were right, you know. We need to talk. We've… needed to talk for quite some time.”

“So I'm not crazy, then. That. Ah. That happened,” he starts awkwardly. He's standing at attention without having noticed when exactly he started. Habit and training and nerves drawing his spine up and his shoulders back, regimental perfection.

She _had_ been there. That really was her sweet voice he’d heard drawing out his name into a breathless wail as they shattered together. It was real. All of it. His heart rate spikes along with his breathing. If he'd had his helmet on, the monitor for his life signs would be going haywire in his left peripheral.

“Yes,” she sighs, still facing the door, and she… wilts a little. Something is wrong. “Goddess, Bly, I am so sorry.”

Hang on.

What.

“I shouldn't have… in-invaded your privacy like that.”

Technically no, but he wasn't about to complain. It had worked out pretty fucking well for him, all things considered. But why won't she look at him?

“It wasn't on purpose, I swear,” she says, a little desperately, as she turns around, and that snaps him out of whatever nervous stupor he's stuck in enough to let him reach for her.

“Sir--”

She shakes her head sharply, her lekku twisting together. Fuck. That one he recognizes. “Goddess, Bly… please. I… I can't be your General right now.”

“Alright,” he says hesitantly, his hands hanging sort of useless in the air and then falling to his sides.

“I’m sorry, Bly. I didn't--I couldn't block you out, and then things… g-got out of hand, and…”

She's still talking, but she's being drowned out by the sort of dull, high-pitched whine that comes after a flashbang, rattling through his bones as the realization hits.

 

She wasn't  _ eavesdropping _ .

She wasn't  _ participating _ , you idiot. 

She was  _ trapped,  _ you  _ arrogant,  _ selfish  _ asshole. _

 

_ She tried to leave  _ and you made her stay, didn't you? She tried to get you to stop what you were doing, when she pulled your hair and tried to pull you up her body with her legs and-- _ shit _ , maybe that would have turned into trying to get you  _ off of her  _ but you  _ held her down  _ so you could do what  _ you  _ wanted to  _ her  _ body like you owned it.

Fuck, you don't know how all this mind-magic sleenshit works, for all you know, you forced her to enjoy it, too.

…

…

…

Huh. Before, when you shut down, blanked out, panicked, got overwhelmed by too much  _ everything _ back in training, as a cadet, you used to lock up. Fall back on training like you were taught and run on autopilot. Now it feels like you're actually  _ shutting down.  _ Communication Error: Legs Offline.

It'd probably be hilarious to watch the way your knees give out as you tilt sideways into her desk, leaning on your hand--nope, Additional Joint Malfunction: Elbow Failure, and down you go, half slumped over, down to her level, to the ground where you  _ belong _ \--

No no  _ no  _ what is she doing down here why is she touching you hands on your face tilting your face up--

“Don't you  _ dare  _ think that, Bly, Goddess, no--”

Her hands are too soft on your face, even with the saber calluses on her palms that rasp against your unshaven cheeks.

“Bly, look at me, please--”

_ Fuck _ no, no, you  _ can't,  _ you can't look at her, not after what you  _ did-- _

“ _ Damn  _ it,” she spits, like she's bitten into something terrible. “ _ Look at me,  _ 5052\. That's an  _ order. _ ”

His eyes snap open, hot gold meeting soft brown, and she winces as he stares her down, unblinking. Orders. Yes. He can do orders. He can function like this. Obviously he can't be a person, anyway, look where it's gotten him, even if she insists he could be.

She runs her thumbs along his cheekbones, following his tattoos. “Bly, I could have stopped it at any time, but I didn't.”

“ _ Why _ ?” he rasps, breathless and ragged, uncomprehending. His voice breaks on the word. Why is she touching him? Why did she let him have his name again? “Why would you let me  _ do  _ that?! I--”

_ Soft _

 

What.

She's. Kissing him. Cradling his face in both hands like he's something precious. He can't breathe. Doesn't dare.

“Because we've needed to talk for quite some time.”

 

Oh.

 

She's kneeling with her thighs bracketing his hips, sitting on his still largely useless legs, and looks down when he does, shifting uneasily. Not like she wants to cover herself, she has as little body-shyness as any of his brothers. She's too practical for that. It's not until she murmurs another (needless) apology and starts to get up that he realizes he hasn't said a word in an uncomfortably long time, just sat there staring at her.

His hands come up and hook behind her knees without his permission-- _ please don't go-- _ pulling her back down with a thump and he  _ immediately  _ regrets it, releasing her like he's been burned _. Shit _ he's still hauling her around, pawing at her like an animal and--

… and that soft little  _ oh!  _ of hers might have been indicative of pleasure.

She's taking his hands, putting them back on her legs, pulling his palms up her thighs--no, wait--that’s--his gloves are too rough, tough letheris-lined nanoprene--and she  _ shivers,  _ sighing against his mouth as she kisses him again.

… maybe not.

She tilts her head, leaning into him, her lips parting gently on a warm sigh, catching his bottom lip between hers, sucking softly until he inhales shakily, his chest inexplicably tight. His hands close on her hips, pulling her farther forward in his arms, until the soft warm V of her hips is pressed firmly against the plates over his stomach. Half his fingers end up underneath bottom hems of her thin, soft shorts, cupping her backside in his hands with the fabric bunched up tight around her hips, between her legs, and that makes her  _ moan. _

It's a small, soft sound, scarcely audible over his heart pounding in his ears but he can feel it in his chest like the impact of a concussion round as her hands come back up to his face, clinging to him. Whatever desperate noise he answers with is lost in her smile as one of her hands moves up through his hair, the other rubbing the back of his neck which probably doesn't feel nearly as good on him as it would on  _ her _ but she's gotten her fingers and half her hand down the back of his blacks and subsequently reminded him that skin contact is  _ fucking incredible _ . Unfortunately, taking his gauntlets off means letting go of her, however briefly, unless, eh, fuck it--

He wraps one arm around her, spanning her incongruously slender waist easily, pressing the softness of her chest and  stomach against his. It almost  _ hurts  _ to pull away from her sweet mouth long enough to start popping the fasteners on his other gauntlet with his teeth, which makes her laugh and grab at his hand to undo it herself.

“You'll chip a too- _ oohhh _ \--”

Much better, he can keep kissing her this way.

He's not sure where she tosses his gauntlet, (not entirely true, some hard-trained automatic part of his brain registers that it bounced off the desktop next to him and disappeared over the other side, knocking over a wastebasket half-full of flimsiplast datawork on the way down) and he can't really bring himself to care. Especially when she doesn't release his hand to let him follow the impossible inward curve of her waist like he planned, instead pushing his hand right up her shirt until the soft warm swell of her breast fills his hand entirely, the harder bead of her taut nipple pressed into his palm. Her hand covers his, guiding him in kneading the soft flesh, thin cotton bunched up over their wrists enough to show off the beautifully muscled plane of her stomach and the barest sliver of the underside of her breasts.

The low, throaty moan that spills into his mouth from hers as he shifts his hand, rolls her nipple between his fingers is the most perfect sound he's ever heard, somehow better still when accompanied by the whisper of her skin against his armor, his  _ hand _ , as she leans into his touch, standing up on her knees. It makes her taller than him for once, just slightly, and he cranes his neck to keep his mouth on hers, then thinks better of it, moving with her, following the sharp curve of her jawline, down her throat, to feel the way her pulse is racing, thrumming against his lips. Her hand on the back of his neck holds him close, fingertips stroking through the barely-there fuzz at the base of his skull. His free hand comes up to pull at the collar of her shirt, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone to the wet warmth of his mouth, the careful pressure of his teeth.

That sparks a startled whine and--oh  _ fuck _ , a short, shallow twitch of her hips against his armored stomach he can't help but answer with a hungry growl against her skin, pulling her shirt collar farther down to press another kiss to the top of her breast, leaning forward as she bows back to push her breasts into his hand and against his mouth. She rocks forward into him when he pulls her collar again with a crackle of popped threads, her stomach pushed tight against his chestplate--

Until she shoves him back with a hand on his shoulder, pushing herself out to arm’s length.

 

Nice one _ jackass _ . Figure out what you did wrong and then  _ never do it again.  _ Or anything. Ever.Maybe just stop existing entirely because clearly you can't even follow explicit, detailed instructions correctly. 

 

Wait.

 

Where'd her shirt go?

 

Oh. 

 

Oh you did something  _ very  _ right.

 

She's cradling his face again, pressed in close with all her softness crushed against his plates as she kisses him, wild and hungry, nipping at his lips and tongue, panting into his mouth as she--fuck--that’s  _ familiar _ , she--

His hands have dropped to her hips again, automatically holding her steady as she rocks back and forth in his lap, rubbing her--her _ self _ on the curve of his codpiece. That, above and beyond anything else, convinces him this is actually happening, because he isn't crazy enough to dream up the thought of his General giving herself a fucking  _ paintjob  _ in his lap with her tits out.

She  _ whines  _ when he hooks his bare hand under her ass--her inner thighs are ever so slightly slick,  _ fuck damn-- _ lifting her off his lap so he can get his mouth on her breasts again, following the dark indigo of her areola with his tongue, carefully rolling her other nipple in his gloved fingertips and  _ loving  _ the way it makes her gasp raggedly and clutch at his armored shoulders and--

 

**_tok toktok tok_ **

 

\--and  _ freeze  _ like a jackrab in a spotlight.

“General? Sir? A word?”

Oh no. Oh  _ fuck,  _ what time was it?  _ Shit _ \--The boys are back, it's half an hour into sleep cycle--

_ What do we do?!  _ she mouths, and he shrugs helplessly.

_We can't tell them_ now,  _not like this!_

_Obviously! I--_

“General? You in there?”

“Yes?” she calls, and winces horribly.

There's a lot of muttering outside the door, some kind of argument that boils down to “You tell her! No, you!” until someone, probably Razor, says

“Sir, we can't find Commander Bly.”

“He didn't go out with any of us and no one's seen him on base for hours.”

“Have you seen him at all, sir?”

She  _ looks  _ at him and he can't restrain a snort of incredulous laughter, to which she flaps her hands at him and hisses  _ They’ll hear you! _

“I'm… sure he's fine?” she says hesitantly, giving him a sort of helpless look, and he manages to muffle his next burst of laughter in the softness of her chest, but that doesn't exactly solve the problem, especially when a misguided puff of air makes a  _ ridiculous  _ noise against her skin.

“Yeah, probably, it's just weird.”

“He’ll turn up eventually?” she says, looking up at the ceiling with an unmistakable expression of  _ “ _ Oh for the love of fuck _ go away _ .”

“S'pose so. Let us know if you hear from him?”

“Yes, of course, thank you, goodnight,” she babbles, as he steadily loses his ability to keep his shit together, his shoulders  _ shaking  _ with enough repressed laughter to make his stomach hurt.

“G'night, sir.”

She sighs with relief, and puts her hands on her hips. “ _ Goddess _ . And people say Jedi miss out on the experiences of Parenthood,” she mutters, watching him grin cheekily up at her from a faceful of soft, pale blue heaven. She attempts to scowl as his eyes crinkle up into a more mischievous sort of smile. “Don't you  _ dare-- _ ”

 

**_PFFFFFBBBBBPPPTT_ **

 

Of course the boys come running back in a clatter of heavy boots when she  _ squeals _ , half a dozen voices demanding to know if she's alright, to which she yells something about seeing a bug, it's fine, everything's fine! as she attempts to smother him and his wheezing laughter.

“Oh  _ shit.  _ I think we found the Commander,” someone outside says, thunderstruck, and is immediately shot down by half a dozen jeers and catcalls as they walk away again.

“You  _ wish! _ ”

"No way he'd actually go for it.”

“Yeah, I'm calling shenanigans.”

“ _ Please,  _ he's too chickenshit to admit to  _ us  _ that it's not her  _ back  _ he's watching when she takes point.” 

 

Listen here you little shit--

 

“I need to go throttle someone,” he says, and she laughs, kissing him gently. 

 

“No, you need to come to bed,” she murmurs. "Let them worry about  _you_ for once."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "paintjob" : noun, clone slang  
> The act of frottage while one or more parties involved is still wearing 75% or more of their armor. Origin of the word is disputed:  
> 1) A clone's decorative armor paint is sexually alluring in and of itself, prompting the act  
> 2) A clone's armor ends up with "new paint" after the act


	4. Alternative Punishment Detail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bly finally gets to use his education and make a lot of terrible military jargon based sex puns and I regret none of them

Waking up is a slow, gradual process. Partially because it's something like two hours before reveille. Partially because her system is flooded with enough Human-grade oxytocin that she is very nearly  _ dizzy  _ with contentment. The source is behind her, the fever-warmth of him seeping into her legs through his blacks. Moreso through the long stretch of her lekku that he's draped across his bare chest and stomach. As a result, the rows of chemoreceptors all along the undersides occasionally brush against him, picking up a fresh taste of the pheromones on his skin.

Presumably the intent was to prevent himself from accidentally squashing them.

It may also have something to do with his evident enjoyment of gently running the backs of his knuckles along their length, watching them twitch, the tips curling and flexing slowly. He huffs out a short, amused breath at one particularly emphatic wriggle, low on his belly where the blankets have been pushed aside.

“Mhnnnn…?”

“Sorry,” he whispers, and she can hear his smile. “They seem to get mad when I stop. Didn't want to wake you.”

“'S nice,” she murmurs back, moving closer to him. He's tucked his other hand behind his head, and she can shift herself into the underside of his arm and side without crushing either her cone or the root of her lekku, which is difficult enough with custom pillows, let alone Military Issue. “C'n do that all day if y’want.”

That gets her another soft chuckle, his warm hand stroking up to the back of her head, fingers dipping down to rub along the root of her lekku. “Would if I could. Stars know I have enough lost time to make up for, but I don't know how to stall the boys much longer than reveille. Drills today, and all.”

She reluctantly drags an arm out of the blankets so it flops vaguely in the direction of her nightstand and datapad. Too far. But too comfortable. She flicks her fingers, it zips into her hand like a trained bird, and Bly laughs.

“That  _ can't  _ be an Appropriate Use of the Force,” he says, still idly petting her lekku.

“You saw nothing,” she says, and twiddles her fingers over her shoulder at him, without any impetus behind it.

“I… saw n...nothing …” he mumbles, utterly deadpan and with a slightly worryingly convincing glazed expression, before he breaks character with another slow smile, watching her tap away at her datapad. “What's that?”

“Delegating. Telling your Captains to handle drills themselves, they're big boys. I'll find you myself.”

“Oof _.  _ AWOL all night  _ and  _ my General had to come fetch me. I'm going to be in trouble _. _ ”

“Damned right you are. I'll have to give you  _ quite  _ the dressing down,” she answers, snickering. “How  _ are  _ you going to explain yourself?”

He rolls over onto his side behind her, smoothly shifting her lekku into another, equally comfortable and accommodating position around them like he's done it a thousand times, or, knowing him, spent the entire time he's been awake mentally strategizing how best to go about doing that.

“Suppose I'll have to figure out the proper military jargon for 'I spent the night in the arms of the most incredible person I've ever met,’” he murmurs against her shoulder, his hand slipping beneath her shirt, arm around her waist to pull her flush against his chest. “Think that'll get me off the hook?”

She sighs contentedly, letting his body heat burn through the thin fabric of her shirt, a long stretch of fire all down her spine, more than physical warmth, and turns a second sigh into a contemplative hum. “Oh, I don't know. AWOL all night, and _ then  _ you skip drills? You'll have to take on some extra duties for punishment detail,” she says, her idly chiding tone at complete odds with the way she leans back into him, pushing her backside against the hollow of his hips.

“Not kitchen detail, I hope. I  _ hate  _ that,” he murmurs between kisses down the back of her neck and shoulder.

“Think I'll just run you through your paces with some extra Physical Training,” she answers, rolling her hips back again, hooking one leg back around his to run the top of her foot down his calf, grinning at his pleased growl as his growing erection slots in perfectly along her ass.

“What, like, ‘You hit the deck and I blow your brains out,’?” he teases, his hand sliding up her stomach to cup her breast, gently pinching her nipple between his first two fingers--he’s _ entirely  _ too good at figuring out what she likes, it's uncanny--and she  _ groans,  _ rolling her eyes as he chuckles into her shoulder.

“ _ Goddess,  _ that's  _ terrible _ , not to mention anatomically inaccurate and--”

And he leans up and over to kiss her protests away, still laughing, and he won't  _ shut up _ \--

“I can drop, but I dunno if I can give you  _ twenty. _ We both know I can do at least  _ two--” _

“I will  _ throw you  _ out of this bed, Bly, don't--mph--don’t  _ test _ me--”

He won't let her finish, leaning in to kiss her every time she opens her mouth, hotter and deeper each time until she gives up and moans into his mouth as his palm slides down the smooth muscled plane of her stomach to cup her sex over her shorts, his hips rolling with hers. With her leg hooked back over his, he can reach between her legs, his middle fingers stroking smoothly between one nerve cluster and the other, back and forth, pressing gently into her slit along the way. The fabric quickly grows damp, then wet under his touch as she shudders in his arms, torn between rocking back against the hard swell of his erection and forward into his hand.

He moans softly, his open mouth pressed to the slope of her shoulder as she leans up, reaching back to wrap her arm around his shoulders, pulling him into another kiss. He shifts with her, his hand sliding back up her body, leaving a streak of slick low on her belly as he pushes her shirt up her stomach and they writhe together enough to drag it up over her head. She  _ whines _ , frustrated, as she gets arms and lekku tangled in the loose fabric, until he’s able to kiss her again, warm and slow. She slowly settles back against his chest as he takes her hand in one of his, shifting it up and back as he runs the other down her side, following the sharp dip of her waist to the curve of her hip.

Slipping his fingertips under the waistband of her shorts makes her push back against him with a hungry sound that shakes him down to the bone, makes him rut against the soft swell of her ass, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as he does. He groans like it's not enough, and pushes her partway over onto her belly, trailing wet kisses down her back, her side, his breath going ragged as he drags her shorts down her legs. The blankets tangle around his hips as he moves down, their fingers twisting and resettling, and she muffles a soft cry into the pillows as his teeth scrape over the sensitive skin just under the crease at the back of her thigh. She curves back to watch him push her near thigh up towards her belly, spreading her open with his palm under her ass, stroking his thumb through the wetness dripping from her slit.

He holds her gaze as he follows it with his tongue.

His name falls out of her mouth on a long, quiet moan and his eyes flutter briefly closed at the sound before his fingers tighten around the back of her thigh. She's a little louder the second time, when he licks  _ into _ her, until the sound cuts off into a shocked gasp that she muffles in the pillows as he sucks lightly over one dark jewel. Her fingers tighten sharply around his, squeezing his hand as he tries the things that worked so very well in his head, his tongue working in looping patterns over every sensitive bit of nerves in her core. He breaks away when she starts to shiver, her lekku twisting slightly against her back and side, and she  _ whines  _ into the pillows--too much,  _ too much _ . He slows down, carefully kissing the delicate, soft skin that frames her slit, chasing thick droplets of fluid down her thighs, the softness of his lips and tongue a sharp contrast to the rasp of his stubble on her skin.

He spreads his focus out, his free hand stroking up her thigh to cover her tailbone with his palm, his thumb dipping down again to rub circles over and around the less sensitive second spot. Finding the right angle to reach everything else he wants to is apparently a challenge, enough that he sits up abruptly, hooks his arm under her hips and  _ hauls  _ her onto her shaking knees. Her surprised  _ yelp  _ spirals up into an ecstatic wail she just barely manages to bury in her arm, the pillows out of reach, and she  _ clings _ to his hand when he licks into her again, taking care to hit at least one hot little jewel whenever he shifts his head.

Another pause drags another pleading whimper out of her, his fingers trailing feather-light through the slickness coating her sex before one, then two together slide slowly into her, stroking gently through cilia that ripple and pulse eagerly around his fingers, sparking a slow burn low in her abdomen.

She has never heard someone swear so fluently and with so much adoring reverence as when she rocks backwards so the heel of his hand will press against her second jewel, ghosting over her asshole. He seems to have frozen, and she looks back around her shoulder--one lekku blocking her view of  _ truly _ interesting things, hyperflexible spine or not--to watch him, apparently transfixed by the sight of her fucking herself on his hand.

“ _ Blyyyy--” _

That snaps him out of his trance with another fervent curse, gets his mouth back on her, and she gasps when he rolls his hand over to stroke his thumb in broad, rocking circles over that first bundle of nerves without pulling his fingers out of her. Her body is clutching at him almost too tightly to let him, anyway, and she buries her desperate, panting moans in the crook of her arm. He answers her, the sound humming against her flesh as he squeezes her hand in his and pushes her over the edge with his strong perfect fingers and clever, clever mouth.

He doesn't seem to notice that her muffled, broken wail was accompanied by her datapad rattling right off the nightstand. He's too busy kissing his way up her back and side, following the scar along her ribs with his tongue, taking her nipple in his mouth as he carefully rolls her back onto her side, leaving a wet handprint on her hip. His frustration bleeds into her through a haze of endorphins--he doesn't have enough  _ hands,  _ not to hold hers and hold  _ her  _ and run his palm over her naked stomach with that air of  _ yes fucking finally wanted this so bloody long,  _ and get himself out of the blacks that are all but  _ killing  _ him by now. The compression and friction is making him wild as he mouths the dip in her collarbone, streaking more of her own wetness along the underside of her breast as he cups it in his hand again, just this side of too rough.

She solves his dilemma herself by pulling him up to kiss her lips, her hands cradling his face, gentling him down with the taste of herself, sweet and sharp, lingering on his tongue. It steadies him somewhat, enough that he can take a long, shuddering breath with his face pressed into the side of her neck, breathing her in as he unseals his blacks, shoving them down his legs probably more awkwardly than he'd prefer. It doesn't matter, because he's sliding up behind her again, burying his face between the roots of her lekku with an almost pained moan when he pulls her against his chest. She shivers as his hand slides down her stomach, stopping just below her navel to pull her hips flush with his, and she arches back against him with a hoarse cry. Goddess, she can feel every inch of his skin against hers, the shift and flex of solid, working muscle underneath and the fever-hot length of his erection against her ass, precum slicking over the small of her  _ back,  _ light, that's one rumor proved true.

He moans her name into her skin, pushing his hand down between them to drag the dripping head of his cock down the cleft of her ass, slowly pressing between her legs. He purrs his approval when she reaches back over their shoulders, her hand curving around the back of his neck to hold him close, answers her pleading sighs with his arm curving back around her stomach, down her top leg to pet the back of her knee, his fingers curving down to lift slightly, to hold her open for him.

He's not expecting her to squeeze her thighs together and roll her hips smoothly back, if the string of startled expletives she rips from chest is any indication. She hadn't planned it either, but thickness of his shaft rubs so sweetly against the sensitive insides of her thighs and both nerve clusters at once, the broad head teasing at her slit just before it pushes out between the lips of her cunt. She can't let him go, not when he feels so good, not when there's something slightly perverse and completely perfect about his bronze-brown skin flushing dark rose between her pale blue thighs. He  _ shudders  _ against her back when she pulls her hand away from his neck to gently run her fingertips over the tip of his cock, a thick spurt of precum drooling onto her fingers. She rocks forward slightly as he shifts, pushing his forehead between her shoulders with a ragged gasp that turns into a carefully measured exhale, forcing himself to breathe on a cadence  _ she  _ taught him, to bring himself back under control.

But where's the fun in that? And she knows just when to break him, sinuously rolling her hips _just_ before he finished an exhale, so he _chokes_ on it and clings to her with another hoarse curse, sucking air through his gritted teeth. She manages to repeat the motion twice more before his arm closes tightly down around her waist like a durasteel bar, his knee coming up over her thighs to hold and _keep_ her still, light--he-- _damn_ it she knew he held back when they sparred, and she'd been right and it's _unspeakably_ hot and probably for the best that he did.

She's not sure which is worse, the way he can keep her from moving,  _ control  _ her until he's ready to move again, or the painstakingly slow, sweet thrust and drag of his cock against her when he finally does. Either way, she has made a grave miscalculation that has heat winding tighter and tighter, low in her abdomen as she writhes in his arms, lekku curling and shifting against the broad plane of his heavily tattooed back, the interlaced golden geometry she's determined to examine at length when she's not a breathy, pleading mess under his hands.

He's muttering indistinctly into her skin, thrusting faster now, she can barely hear or understand what he's saying through her pulse hammering through her head and the hot wet slide of skin on skin but she can _feel_ it, Goddess, he wants her to climax again, before him, before he loses it, and she _aches_ with the need. His hand dropping abruptly from her breast down between her legs to press short, rough circles over and around the swollen bead of nerves he can reach sets her off again with a sharp cry that he echoes with a hoarse, broken, _disbelieving_ moan as she angles her hips back so his next rolling thrust pushes his length completely inside her in one smooth motion, so he can feel her body _pulse_ around him in orgasm, cilia and muscle clinging to him, flexing rhythmically.

The sudden, perfect stretch, the burst of heat inside her, draws her peak out impossibly long, and he doesn't let her come down, not for an instant, reaching down to catch her knee, shifting up and over her slightly for leverage as he hooks her leg over his forearm, holding her open so he can use every ounce of his ridiculous core strength, thrusting deep and hard. He tucks his face into the curve of her neck, words falling senselessly out of his mouth between ragged moans: curses, praise and prayers to deities he doesn't have and may very well just be  _ her,  _ the way he says her name.  _ She can't come down _ . He won't  _ let _ her, instead pushing her higher with his fingers locked around hers above them on the bed. It's too much, too perfect, so much at once it almost  _ hurts  _ when she feels him come with a hoarse shout he muffles in her shoulder, a burst of energy  _ tearing _ through her until she shatters in his hands, her spine curving and everything within ten feet of the bed abruptly moving moving a full meter back with a loud, unified clatter and heavy furniture scraping across the floor.

He's shifted their positions in an instant, covering her body with his broad back and shoulders, her head tucked under his arms as he curls protectively around her on instinct and training.

She's still trying to remember how her lungs are supposed to operate when he relaxes slightly, looking up and around, panting.

“Wh-what was… Was that you?” he gasps.

She can't do much more than whimper a vague affirmative.

“Is th-h-hat going to h-happen every time?”

“Bright  _ Goddess,  _ I hope so.”

He ends up briefly squashing one of her lekku after all when he collapses against her shoulder, near hysterics as he showers her with kisses.


End file.
